Fallen Angels
by TheBrokenOnes
Summary: The struggle between a doctor and a detective over life, love, and saying goodbye. *SPOILERS*
1. Prologue

**This fanfic has gotten a good amount of views so far! Not many people go past the prologue, though. The best parts come later. I don't want to be one of those authors that begs for views and reviews, I'm just letting anyone who sees this know. **

**Enjoy! **

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Twenty-three hours ago, I discovered the truth. One hour ago, I discovered his location. For two years, I have dreaded my return. And for these hours, it has become a reality.

But it is time to face the world.

Time to face myself.

Time to face John Watson.

But first I must save him from my lie.

And give him my love.


	2. The Rescuer

I scream and arch my back as the whip cracks for the tenth time. All around me is blood, thick and hot, staining everything dark and sticky. I can barely move. All there is to support my body are the shackles on my wrists, binding me to the wall. Moriarty cackles behind me.

"Is the doctor getting tired of this game, too?" he sneers. He snatches my forearms and I shriek from the pain of the half-healed knife wounds that decorate my flesh from the previous evening.

"How have you held on for so long? Why don't you just give in?" Moriarty asks with a smirk. Because we both know the answer.

I'm waiting for Sherlock.

He may have left on a 'case' two years ago, but I still hold on. Something tells me that I have to. That I might see him again.

Moriarty stands. "He's tough," he says to one of his lackeys. "He'll go through hell if it means he gets to see his beloved Holmes again." Salty tears tickle my lips. Dark spots dance around my eyes. Moriarty has had me for a week, inflicting torture every evening. There is one skylight in my bloodstained cell, allowing me to experience day, but not to touch it, feel it, soak it in and bathe in it. But now it is night. Night is a good time to let go.

Moriarty snatches my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me too look into his hateful eyes. I can barely hold back my cries.

"You can wait forever. He's not coming. Get over yourself." He shoves me and beckons to his lackeys. "One way or another, he'll be gone come morning. I never expected him to last this long, though. Got to give him credit…" His voice fades into the distance.

I let free the sobs I was holding in. My entire body trembles. I am ready to let go. I am. But my last wish was to see his face. I just needed a glimpse. I needed to tell him. Tell him how I felt. Still feel. But I cannot suffer anymore. I am ready.

I am so distracted with all of my pain that I do not notice the two men: one in the corner, and the other on the skylight. I do not notice the skylight creak open. I do not notice the plinking of blood dripping off of a boot. I do not notice the metallic glint of the knife. All I feel a few moments later is the intense pain in my abdomen as the man from the corner stabs me. All I hear is my scream chorused with the scream of something that sounds like a name, the thud of boots on concrete, and the smack of flesh on flesh. My shackles shift and loosen. I fall. The man from the skylight kneels next to me.

"John," he murmurs. Tears drip from his chin to my face. "John… no…"

"Who -"

"Shhh. It'll be alright. You're safe now. There's a team of professionals outside that I called just in case. You'll be ok. I promise." He gently scoops me into his arms and carries me in his arms towards the iron door.

It takes all of my willpower to shift my head and look at the man who is holding me. I see the glint of silvery-blue eyes, dark hair, and angular features. His perfect lips. I must be dreaming. This cannot be real.

The cold night embraces me as he steps outside. I sense other people nearby, but they are not important. I stare at my rescuer, fading in and out of consciousness, and whisper the name I have longed to utter for two years.

"Sherlock…"


	3. The Truth

The chair is uncomfortable. The room is chilled. The patient is still unconscious after thirty-one and a quarter hours. Running thin on patience, I begin to pace. John is worrying me. I feared I was too late to save his life. Too late to save his spirit.

John had been holding on for me? Not something I would have deduced. We were only ever partners. But I have been watching him. I was always watching him. Until I left.

That was hardest thing I have ever had to do. I never wanted to leave John. It was the last thing on earth I could have wished for. But I had to. And I figured he would be ok.

But the doctors informed me of John's depression diagnosis. I was wrong.

I have never been wrong.

There is a sudden noise. It is so soft, yet it seems loud in this room where the only noise is the beep of the heart monitor. It comes again. Barely describable. But so relieving.

A soft moan. Coming from the bed. The heart monitor shrills, and John stirs slightly. A nightmare most likely. But that means he is closer to consciousness.

I smile. The familiar noises of John's subconscious fright calm me. But then the heart monitor beats at an alarming rate, and I have to wake him.

"John." I place my hand on his arm. "John." I give him a slight shake. Normally that wakes him. He has, thankfully, always been a light sleeper. But now he is trapped in unconscious fear. And I cannot stop it. I feel helpless. I shake his arm harder. "John! JOHN!"

His blue eyes fly open and he gasps. "NO!" His voice is scratchy from disuse. His eyes dart around, on edge, then relax slightly when he realizes where he is. Then he sees me. His heavy breathing hitches.

"Hello John." It's all I can think to say.

His eyes well with tears of anger. He is so beautiful when he is angry. "How could you?" He whispers. I wonder if my pupils are dilated. "Do you understand how positively depressed I've been? Can you possibly fathom the disappointment I feel? The broken dreams that haunt the night? I wake up, expecting something strange. New. Exciting. I wake to emptiness. How dare you, Sherlock?" His voice is rising to a shout. "I needed you! I trusted you! You abandoned me! I had no one else! Alone for two years! Do feelings even matter to you?! You selfish -"

All of my held back emotion explodes inside of me. I bend down and I silence him with my lips.

He seems shocked; his mouth is hard in denial. I kneel next to the bed and tangle his blonde hair in my cold fingers. My other hand goes between his shoulder blades, and I press him closer. He pulls away and screams. I leap back.

Shit. I forgot about the whip.

The blue and black of his eyes leak together and the tears collect and fall at a rapid pace. My fingers pull at each other in a game of blame.

"John, I am so sorry, I completely forgot…"

A doctor rushes in.

"We heard screaming. Is everyone alright?"

"Yes, fine. I, um, forgot about his back, and we went to hug, and…"

"Oh. I see. An accident. Well alright then." The doctor looks relieved. "You alright, Mr. Watson?"

John barley nods and the doctor turns to leave.

"Sherlock…" John's bony arm shakily extends towards me. I rush forward and caress his fingers, realizing just how much I have needed him. How much I need him now. All he can manage is a whisper.

"Never leave again. Swear to me. Please. I couldn't bear it. Please Sherlock. Please. I -" His voice catches on a sob. "I need you." He looks into my eyes. "I love you."

My sharp intake of breath was the wrong reflex. He takes it as rejection. But it is merely surprise at the mutual feeling. I never thought I would live to see this day.

"Oh John… You have no idea how badly I have craved this." I lean forward again, putting all of my passion and longing into this kiss. I feel his relief. He puts just as much desire in his reply. We taste of love and lust. He pulls my hand to move me closer, and we are one entity. I shift back and let our foreheads touch.

"I love you, John. And I will never, ever leave. I swear it."


	4. Dreams and Nightmares

~~Six Months Later~~

I lay in the bed, staring at the dark ceiling. There are no noises downstairs, so Sherlock must be asleep. I feel cold and alone, and I want to wake him. But I know better than to disturb him.

As if he read my mind, the door creaks open, and I glance over at his tall figure.

"Bad dream?" I ask. That's normally why he comes in here.

"Can I sleep with you?"

Though I pretend to think it over, my heart pounds eagerly. "Alright."

Sherlock walks around to the other side of the bed, pulls off his dressing gown, and climbs in, facing the ceiling. He grabs my hand, and I can sense his fear. I turn over to face him. He looks beautiful in the darkness.

"It was," -he begins with out my asking- "about you."

"Me?"

"You'd been shot, John." His voice trembles.

"I've been shot before." How I want to console him with more than words.

He turns over to face me. "But this time, you died in my arms."

I am silent for a moment."I won't die, Sherlock." I want to do it. I want to so badly, but it is out of the question.

"But you could. That's what frightens me. This job is very risky, John, and-"

I can't hold back any longer. I lean forward and press my mouth to his.

He catches on immediately, unlike I did all that time ago. He snakes his arms around my torso and pulls me closer. Our mouths begin to move. My hands grab his hair and shirt. He is warm, so warm, but his lips are slightly chilled. His arms slide under my shirt and pull it off. I moan. Our mouths move more and more, and the passion increases and desire takes over. I pull off his shirt. His skin is hot with feverish need. Everything is moving. We are tangled with each other; we are tangled with the sheets. His arms slide up and down my half-naked body, and I snatch his perfect face with my trembling fingers. He moans. Everything is nothing, and he is all that there is. He raises his knee to our chests and wraps his leg around my waist. I bring my leg around to entwine with his free one. Our mouths are desperately fighting for each other, hungry for more. We cannot get enough. Sherlock's hips begin to grind against mine. My hands grasp his hair so tightly, I am almost pulling it out of his head. Noises escape from us that I never knew humans were capable of. I feel every muscle tighten. I feel every movement. Sherlock moves faster and harder. I turn over so he is on top of me. He shifts away from my face and begins to caress my body with his lips. I arch my neck back and raise my chest as my breathing becomes heavy and fast, and my throat vocalizes my feelings. I run my hands over his back to feel his every bone and muscle. Our hips fight for dominance. His lips move back up to my face and we collide in a frenzy of passion. We are both moaning and sighing. I have never felt so alive.

A dish shatters downstairs. Mrs. Hudson most likely.

I freeze, and Sherlock pulls away and rolls over quickly.

I don't know how much time has passed. I don't know if Sherlock will stay in here. I don't know if it will happen again. All I know is that my breathing is heavy, and so is his. That we both enjoyed it. I curl into a ball, facing away from Sherlock, hoping that this is real. He leans over me and kisses my forehead.

"Goodnight, my dear Watson." He hesitates, then turns over, and I wait for his breathing to slow. I can't sleep. It's been six months since we last kissed. I can't believe we just did this. I want to stay awake and think about it. But fatigue overtakes me. I lean over and rest my head on Sherlock's chest, letting its rise and fall rock me into dreams.

I wake to thin arms caressing me. I smile and thank him silently for being mine.

Huh. I've never thought of it that way before.

Sherlock Holmes is mine.


	5. Never Letting Go

~~Six Months Later~~

I wake, as always, in his arms.

"Morning, John," Sherlock breathes into my ear. I turn my head to find that his face in inches from mine. I lean forward and kiss his nose.

"Morning, Sherlock. Sleep well?"

He shrugs. "Alright. I was too distracted by your proximity to sleep much." I blush. "You seemed quiet tonight," he mentions casually.

I look away. Most nights I do have nightmares. And Sherlock is there every time I wake up. So he would know if I slept soundly.

"No nightmares. Not tonight."

"Ah. My prediction was correct, then. At last, enough data for a conclusion."

"What prediction?"

"That if I held you while you slept, you would remain dreamless. It has been an ongoing experiment."

I realize that his arms are still wrapped around me. I rest my forehead on his chest and breathe when he does. He holds me closer. "If that's the case," I say, "I don't ever want you to let go."

He pulls away slightly to look into my eyes. His glimmer of silvery-blue mesmerizes me. It is all I can do to stay still. "I will never let you go. I swear it." And he kisses me.

It's been a year since we started secretly dating, but my stomach still flutters every time he kisses me. This one is slow, like the rest, but also deep and full of promise. My eyes flutter shut, and I lace my arms through his and around his torso. We lay there, holding each other with our arms and lips. Nothing in the world can break this.

I pull away slowly and rest my ear on Sherlock's heart, listening to its ever quickening beat. My hands rest on his shoulders. He is still holding me. One of his hands slides up my back and he begins stroking my tousled hair. His heart slows. My stomach releases its tension. I fall back to sleep to the rhythm of Sherlock's heartbeat and his fingers in my hair.


	6. Memories

~~Three Months Later~~

"SHERLOCK!"

My scream echoes in the dusk. Every ounce of my being feels fear. The only thing in this world is the figure falling from the rooftop. The thud of his limp body on the pavement is the starting gun of the race to get to him. But people crowd the path, making it impossible to see him. They vanish, and he too is gone. His voice whispers my name. I scream. Then everything is dark and I am not in front of a building, but in my bed, clawing at my chest to rip out the pain I relive every night. The patter of rain outside feels fitting. I begin to cry. He's gone for a second time. He's gone. I know it with my whole being, but it hurts me. It hurts every night is as if it were the first, alone and cold in this big bed, with no embrace to keep out nightmares.

"You promised," I whisper. "You swore you would never leave. You said you would never let me go. What happened to that? Was it all a lie? How could you, -" I stop. I still can't say his name. I bury my face in my hands and try to breathe.

Then I make the mistake of looking over at his coat.

Memories flood my mind. Everything blurs as more tears fill my eyes. I manage to crawl over to the coat and bury my face in it. It smells like him: icy cool, yet warm. Like mint and cinnamon. I hold it close as if it were him. But it is not. It is only a coat. That only makes me cry harder. I have never ached for him so badly. I fall asleep to the sound of the rain and the smell of the only thing that ever mattered.


	7. Realizing

~~One Year Later~~

I realize that I have fallen into a dreary routine. Wake up. Eat a measly breakfast. Go to work at the clinic. Come home. Have a small dinner. Go to sleep. Dream of pain. Wake up.

I thought I was depressed when he first left. Now I am more cold and empty then ever before.

Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson all try to cheer me up, but nothing works. All my clothes have gotten too big. The armchair remains untouched. His coat and scarf stay in my room at all times. I only acknowledge them at night, when memories take over.

I cannot cope much longer. Without him, the bed is too large. The flat is too quiet. The world is too lonesome. I have grown tired. Tired of dreams. Tired of pain. Tired of life.

Come to think of it, there are pain relievers in the cupboard… almost a full bottle…

I decide against the pills - for now.


	8. Perfection

~~One Year, Nine Months Later~~

Who knew I'd give suicide a go?

I have everything prepared. I have a glass of water and a bottle of pills. I sit in his armchair. I'm wearing his coat like a blanket. His scarf is in my hand.

I breathe slowly. I am ready. I have waited almost three years. It has been a painful struggle. But I want to be with him again. I need this. Talking to a slab of stone with a name just isn't the same.

I reach for the pills and pour them into my mouth. I grab the glass and breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

I swig the water and I wait.

Nothing happens.

I've heard of failed suicides before. I was never expecting mine to be one. I am disappointed beyond belief, but it's a good thing that I keep my handgun in the drawer. I reach over and pull it out. It shines in the moonlight. I click off the safety. My hand trembles as I raise it to my temple. My finger slides over the trigger. I raise his scarf to my lips.

"I'm sorry, Sh-Sherlock. I'm s-so sorry. I n-need you. So much."

I take one last look around 221B Baker Street, the only house I ever called home, and close my eyes.

"Sherlock," I whisper. My finger is just about to flex.

"JOHN!" The scream radiates fear. I know that fear. It's the same fear I felt when I watched him jump.

A hand smacks the gun away.

No, I think. No. This isn't real. He's dead. He's dead.

"John. Look at me." The voice is hushed and melodic, beautiful and familiar. Tears streak down my face, and I dare to look up.

His face is just how I remember it, only thinner. His hair is as dark as ever, only longer. His eyes, normally a mess of thought, only shine with fear. And a hint of longing.

"Sher… Sherlock… No… You're dead…"

"I know, John. But I never was. Please John." He reaches to wipe away my tears. I snatch his fingers and hold them against my face. We stare into each other, and he begins to cry. Falling to his knees, he sobs.

"Oh, John. Please, please forgive me. I have spent the past three years barely coping. I was irrational. Please. John. Oh, your name is wonderful to say. John, John, John!" Now he is giggling between sobs. I have never heard Sherlock giggle.

My silence does not bode well. He stops smiling abruptly. He brings his other hand to stroke my face. The moonlight casts shadows on his perfect features.

"My beautiful doctor… I have been lost without you."

I stare at him, soaking in every detail of his being, relishing in the cool touch of his hand.

"Sherlock…" I whisper. "My Sherlock… how can I ever trust you again?"

"There were snipers, John. They would have killed Lestrade… Mrs. Hudson… you…" He looks down. "It was the only way to stop them. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. What can I do -"

I can no longer bear to hear any more. I do the only thing that I know will silence him.

I kiss him.

This one is slow, like the rest. But this one is more passionate, more scared, more… right than any of the others. My stomach flutters like old times. Sherlock trails soft kisses along my neck, and I smile. He smells of mint and cinnamon. He comes back to my lips, and the kiss stays long and slow. Neither of us are eager to change that. My hands find their way to his dark curls. I hold him, as if to never let him pull away. His hands make their way to my face. He holds me, as if to never let me go. This flawless moment. This perfect kiss. It is full of unanswered apologies, unspoken forgiveness, and the melancholy taste of love in death.

Then the world shatters.


	9. Aftermath

When I come to, my head is in his lap. He is stroking my hair tenderly, softly crying, while another doctor picks bits of debris out of my arms. I notice that John's arms and legs are covered in bandages. There are cuts and bruises graffitied on his beautiful face. His breath is a whisper and his heart is a drum.

I finally register pain. Terrible pain that courses through my every vein. My arms sting from the little bits of rubble sticking out of them. On my left leg, I feel the throbbing of my broken skin where I presume the bone poked through, though no one can see it, as it is in a cast. My right ankle is twisted. I feel a draft and realize that I am wearing one of the hospital's flimsy paper gowns. Bandages on my chest and abdomen make breathing hard. My eyes water. I don't know if I can stand this much longer.

"Sherlock?" John whispers. His swimming eyes are filled with concern.

"Hello, John."

"Oh, Sherlock… I've been so worried." He looks tired. "How… how do you feel?"

His voice holds a faint tremor. I can tell that he is holding something back.

"I'm fine, John. Really."

"You're lying. I know you are, don't try to deny it. You have bits of glass in your arms and the broken mantelpiece pierced your side. You have got to be in considerable pain. You are not fine." He begins to shake.

I try to reach up to stroke his face, but I can't move my arms. It hurts too much. I wince. The doctor looks up.

"Feeling alright, Mr. Holmes?"

I cast a sideways glance at John. "Not really. Everything hurts."

"Understandable. You were just in an explosion."

John looks away. I try to think, to piece it together. Then it hits me.

"They bombed 221B." My voice is devoid of any emotion.

"Yes, that. But… but…" John chokes on his words. He shakes his head.

"What? What is it, John?" Fear begins to creep up my throat. "Tell me. Please."

"Sherlock…" My name hangs in the air. I breathe and brace for impact.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is dead. A piece of shrapnel hit her in the… and…" He begins to sob into his hands. I focus on the other doctor. He concentrates on my arm, trying not to hurt me, but everything hurts anyway. He pulls out what seems to be the last piece of glass and grabs some gauze. I focus on him. On his movements. On the sound of the ventilation. The swish of my arm on the paper gown. Anything but what John has said. Because it can't be true.

Involuntarily, I begin murmuring "no", over and over, louder and louder, until the words begin to leak out of my eyes and onto the hospital bed, echoing in the room and in the beats of my heart.

Mrs. Hudson is gone. Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. Mrs. Hudson, who always makes us tea, insisting that she isn't our housekeeper. Dear Mrs. Hudson, who would reprimand me for my experiments. Lovely, sweet, endearing Mrs. Hudson. Dead.

The doctor finishes wrapping my arm. He gets up and starts to leave, but then turns back around to say, "I am sincerely sorry, Mr. Holmes. I really am."

"Thanks," I mutter.

"We will be in to check on you periodically." I see a smile play at his lips. "You two really are cute together," he says, and hurries away.

John leans down to kiss my forehead. His touch sends shivers down my spine, and the pain goes away. For a moment.

Then it comes back full force, and I bite back a scream. I start to cry again.

"John… he will never rest, will he? Moriarty, I mean. Not until he breaks us. Not until he breaks me."

John looks down at me. "No, Sherlock. We may never be ok. He may never let us rest. But as long as we do it together, we'll be ok. I promise."

Without thinking, I whisper "Kiss me, John. It's the only pain reliever that will work." He barely smiles before he leans down.

We are gentle, but I feel our desperation threatening to burst at the seams. We are all each other has.

But I wouldn't want it any other way.


	10. Worries

~~Two Weeks Later~~

Sherlock tries to act strong. He tries to hide the pain. But I see the shattered look in his eyes. I know the truth.

He used to be smart. Confident. Unreliable, quirky, insufferable and beautiful. He was perfect.

Now, he is hollow. Vacant. Tired, down to earth, quiet and mysterious. But I still think he is perfect.

221B has undergone some patching up. It's almost done, but for now, Sherlock and I sleep in 221C, the basement flat. It's cold in here, but he and I hold each other every night, and just him being there keeps me warm. He alone makes me truly happy.

Sherlock and I have both lost weight. My clothes are much too big once again. Sherlock came out of the shower one day wearing a towel round his waist, and I swear I could see his ribs. The passion in our kisses has been replaced with melancholy uncertainty.

Sherlock is tender now. Gentle. Kind, even. Going through all of this has changed him. I'm afraid he is breaking. I struggle to stay strong for him. All I do is for him. Because I am worried. I don't want him to break.


	11. Falling into Realization

John is trying to be strong. For me. But I can see the pain, the fear in his eyes. I feel him tremble when he holds me at night, though it may just be from the cold. He is thinner then he used to be. I can feel his protruding bones pressing into me when we sleep. He seems almost… delicate. That was never a word I would have used before to describe him. But he is. He is like hand-spun glass, and if I mishandle him, he will shatter into a million unfixable pieces.

But life on the outside goes on. People come and go. Cabs honk and pedestrians rush about. No one realizes how dull a life they lead.

I have begun to get bored. This is how I know I am healing. Before, I was too distracted to be bored. But now the pain is subsiding, and the dull boredom I feel when not working on a case is creeping lethargically back into me.

I hate being bored.

Being bored makes my brain fuzzy. I can't think straight. Which is why I use nicotine patches. It gives my brain a spark of energy needed to light the fire that is my mind. Without something to stimulate my brain, I feel numb.

I wish I could work on a case. But Lestrade is insisting that I recover a bit longer. And being with John has changed me. My depth of perception has gotten… shallower. My pace of thinking has slowed. Even the little things are hard to focus on. A while ago, I had told John that I loved him, but I was merely affectionate. Then, I was incapable of love. Emotions slowed down my brain.

Which is why I believe that now, and only now, I have begun to truly love John Watson. Not just because he is handsome. Not just because he cares. But because we have been through so much. But because I have seen him at his best, at his worst, at his most vulnerable. I have seen him at the height of a chase, seen him in a state of passionate lust, seen him in my dreams. He is John Watson. And there is not much more to describe him than that.


	12. Not a Promise

Murmurs in my ear wake me. Sherlock's cheek is rested on my shoulder, and his face is contorted into a disturbed expression. His eyes twitch under his eyelids. His breathing is rapid and shallow. His hands, resting on my stomach and behind my neck, begin to curl into fists. I assume the nightmare escalates, because the murmurs turn to moans. He rolls over and shrinks into a ball. I turn to face his arched back and place my hand upon it. I give him a slight shake.

"Sherlock." My voice is an inaudible whisper. I clear my throat and give him another shake. "Sherlock." He grunts and sits up rapidly. Or rather tries to and falls out of the bed with a loud thump. He stands up slowly, shakes his head, and crawls back in bed.

"I need to stop having nightmares about you dying," he says.

"Oh Sherlock… What am I going to do with you?" I begin to stroke his delicate curls. He snuggles into my chest.

"Has anyone ever known the answer to that question?" he chuckles. I kiss his forehead and wrap my arms around him.

"We're safe now, Sherlock. We'll be ok."

"Promise?"

I hesitate. "No. But only because the promises we meant to keep were trampled underfoot and the remains thrown to the winds. I want this to be a mindset. I want us to be ok. That's all I've ever wanted."

He looks up at me with a rare, adorable puppy-eyed look. My knees feel weak; if I was standing, I would have fallen.

"Finally some sense out of you, John," he says, then lays his head back on my heart and falls asleep.


	13. Back in Business

~~Three Months Later~~

Sherlock Holmes is back.

The cunning, self-centered, brilliant, frustrating, beautiful, threatening, ingenious Sherlock is back. He doesn't sleep with me anymore; he sleeps on the couch. 221B looks an even worse mess now than when the bomb went off. He is absorbed in every case; he plays violin in the ungodly hours of the morning; he hardly eats a thing. He is once again cocky, ignorant, and unfeeling.

I love it.

I missed the thrill of the chase. I missed Sherlock's annoyance at my ignorance. I missed the danger.

But a small part of me pines for the vulnerable, loving, tender Sherlock I knew for a short while.

I often ponder this, simultaneously stealing glances at his perfect silhouette. If he ever looks at me, I don't know it.

"John, I've got it!" he shouts one say, springing up from the armchair and clasping his hands. "It was the gardener's wife's cousin, obviously, I mean he had traces of Worcestershire sauce on his lapel… And he and the gardener were best friends, so of course he would have access to the shed and thus the keys and tools…"

"Shall I call Lestrade?" I ask.

"Yes, yes, please. Wait no, ask him to come over immediately. Yes, that'll do. And put on the kettle, will you?"

I stand up without reply. After calling Lestrade, I fill a kettle and heat the stove.

I lean against the counter and wait for it to boil.

I wonder if it's my imagination, but the part of me that wants the other Sherlock back might be growing louder.


	14. Remember

~~One Week Later~~

John is stealing glances again. He stares at his laptop mostly, but occasionally he flickers his eyes sideways in my direction. It's so distracting.

I'm glad to be back solving cases. I realized in my absence just how much love numbs the brain. It may not be apparent to John, but I do still love him. I've just been pushing any and all emotions to the depths of my intellect. Though occasionally, the feelings seep through, and a sudden urge to kiss him overcomes me. I have fought it well so far. But the crack through which the urge oozes is growing wider and wider, and it is becoming more intense and unbearable.

Then I snap.

John is tapping an unrecognizable rhythm with his fingers on the table. He is concentrated on editing his latest blog post. His skin glows in the soft light of the laptop. Ever so often, his tantalizing eyes catch a glimpse of me. I see it every time, even if he thinks I don't.

But the glimpses turn to glances turn to looks turn to stares. And each time, my eyes linger longer and longer before looking away.

John stands up to stretch. Impulse and desire overtakes me. I rush forward, seize his beautiful face, and put my mouth on his.

He is shocked for barely a second before resting his hands on my shoulders and standing on his toes so he can be closer. I smile through the kiss. He has always been adorably short.

We mutually migrate towards the couch and fall on it, me pinned below him. What started out as gentle has turned ravenous. His hands slide to my chest and begin unbuttoning my shirt. I shift around to pull it off. We both start grabbing at his t-shirt and yank it over his head. He cools my burning flesh, and I shiver with pleasure. We roll over and fall to the floor. We begin the fight to be atop the other.

"Sherlock," he gasps between kisses. "Why… now?"

"Because…I needed… you… to know… I'm sorry… I've been… neglecting… you… and I… need… you to… remember…"

"Remember… what?"

"No matter… what I … show… I still… love… you…"

He breathes in bursts of air that mirror his heartbeats. He pulls at my hair with trembling fingers. I taste salt and realize he is crying. I hope it's because he is happy. I just want him to be happy.

We lie still on the wood floor, facing each other and kissing passionately. The feeling of intensity is there; it has always been there. We slow, becoming gentler and gentler, until all we are doing is holding one another. John cuddles into my bare chest, and I rest my cheek on his hair.

Then John looks up. "Sherlock," he whispers. "I thought you'd forgotten."

"I could never forget what we had. What we still have. I will always remember. Remembering is what memories are for. I'm making memories. I'm living in the moment. I'm living in love. With you. And you're all I ever need. Please remember, John."

"I promise." He smiles. He is so beautiful when he smiles. I kiss his forehead and lay back. He rests his head on my chest. We fall asleep together on the cool floor, resting in the embrace of our love.


	15. Dawn's Surprises

The pale light of dawn trickles through the windows. I wake up on the floor. I start smiling uncontrollably when I remember why. I glance over and see Sherlock, innocent and peaceful looking in dreams. I lean over and kiss his cheek softly so I don't disturb him.

Then I hear the click.

I turn slowly and find the barrel of a gun staring me in the face. The black-clad man holding the gun stares at me, unfazed at my half-nakedness.

"If you want to live," he grumbles in a thick Cockney accent, "get your partner and a shirt and follow me."

Without taking my eyes off of the gunman, I bend down and shake Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock." I try to sound calm, but I put warning in my voice. "There's a man here. You need to get up - now."

He grunts and looks around. Upon seeing the gunman, he scrambles to his feet and reaches for his own gun. Pointing it at the gunman, he growls viciously.

"Why are you here? Who sent you? Where are you taking us?"

"All in good time, Mr. Holmes. Now dress yourself. I'll wait. I've all the time in the world."

Sherlock stares for a moment before setting down the gun. We run into our room and close the door behind us.

"Is it Moriarty, Sherlock?" I whisper.

"I assume so," he replies darkly. "I don't know what he wants with us, though. And I don't know who the man is, either… But we must hurry. Grab a shirt and a coat."

We rush about the room, looking for the clothes. Sherlock grabs his deep purple button down and pulls it on. I find a blue t-shirt and yank it over my head. Our coats and his scarf hang on the door hook. I grab mine, open the door and run out. The gunman is leaning against the wall.

"Right. Follow me," he says as he turns to go.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Come along, John," Sherlock mutters. He presses me forward. I take a deep breath and walk outside.

The gunman sits in a black SUV. He gestures to the back seats. Sherlock and I exchange a glance and climb in.

The drive is about an hour long. Somewhere within the first ten minutes, my hand finds Sherlock's, and I rub his knuckles with my thumb. He holds a slight tremor throughout his being. I see five million thoughts flickering around in his eyes. I feel a troubling sense of foreboding. Something is about to happen. Something big.

The SUV jerks to a stop. The door beside me opens. The gunman stands there.

"G'out. Now."

I slide out and stumble. Sherlock glides down and brushes off his lapel. "Hurry on, then," he says. He looks so… serene.

The building in front of us is low and boxy, all glass, but I can't see in. The gunman leads us inside. We go up a tall staircase and around a few corners before stopping in front of a door. The plaque reads:

_J. Moriarty_

I glance at Sherlock, but he is expressionless. He knocks.

"Come in," calls the familiar voice.

I flinch at the sight of him. My back and side sting in memory. I taste blood, I see blood, but there is no blood. Only memories.

"Welcome to my office," Moriarty cackles. "I hope the ride was enjoyable."

I see Sherlock glance over at me. My breathing is slow, controlled; I am fighting to keep it even. "Hello, Jim," I sneer. "Brought us here to be toyed with, have you?"

"In a way," Moriarty replies. He snaps his thin fingers. Two burly men burst in and grab me and Sherlock. We struggle for a bit before large hands cover our mouths and noses. I cannot breathe. Black spots dance in front of my eyes. Then everything is gone.


	16. Trauma

I wake bound to a chair. A swinging lamp hangs above me, casting a soft glow over a small part of what appears to be a large room. John is next to me, staring into the darkness. He seems to always be the first up. He looks at me and does a double take.

"Sherlock," he gasps. "Finally."

"How long was I out?" I groan.

"Not long," he replies. "Half an hour or so."

"Finally up, I see."

His voice comes from in front of us. The tip of a polished shoe peeks into our circle of light, then the rest of him is revealed.

Gaunt, stiff, and smirking, Jim Moriarty slinks closer. "Feeling rested?" he drawls. "Very good - just in time for the show." He draws the last word out, and the second he finishes uttering the final consonant, all of the blinding lights in the room flash on.

I turn my head away and shut my eyes. Oh, it burns. I blink a bit until my eyes adjust to the light.

John gasps.

Torture machines. Countless torture machines. They surround us like wolves do an injured rabbit. My heart sets the pace at which I should run away. But I am tied to this chair. I cannot run. I cannot escape. The pounding of my heart reverberates through my head, and my throat closes. I cannot breathe. What… what is this? Then I realize.

Fear. I am afraid. No - terrified. I am terrified.

If I were free, I would have grabbed John's hand. I need to be reassured of his proximity. I struggle against my bonds, and through my periphery, I see John doing the same. He appears more panicked than frightened. Moriarty just laughs at us in his demonic way.

"No escape, laddies!" He leans close to my face. I smell caramel sweets on his breath. "You're not getting out this time. It's foolproof! Steel doors locked from the outside, no windows, security on the outside and inside. But you'll be so far gone when I'm done, you won't even care!" he shrieks in delight. Turning away, he breathes out one word: "Begin."

I hear John bite back a scream, and I look over at him. The bright light on his face makes his tears shine like silver. He looks over slowly and extends his fingers towards me. I do the same; we can almost touch. One inch away. It may as well be a million miles.

Two men hurry over and untie John. They do it roughly, not caring if it hurts. John never takes his eyes away from mine. They drag him over to a machine with one hundred cords spiraling around its metal frame. A wet, metal chair with wrist cuffs sits in the center of it all. The men throw John onto the chair and close the cuffs. They stick wires in his hair and along his arms and chest. John struggles as one of the men strides behind the chair and places his hand on a power switch. He looks to Moriarty, who nods slowly.

"You first, Doctor," he mocks.

The man pulls the switch. I see the spark swirl around the wires. It seems to happen so slowly. I want to cry out, to warn John, but my voice won't work.

The spark hits the chair.

John's scream permeates the silent room. His body arcs in pain. The chair glows faintly blue. I can only imagine how much worse the water makes it. The wires dance and sparkle with electricity. The man pulls the switch again, and the wires lie still. John twitches and moans. I want to go to him, I want to punch Moriarty, but I am still restrained. Though not for long.

Moriarty turns to me. "Your turn." He is practically giddy. It sickens me. His men release me and drag me to a different contraption. There are leather bindings for the ankles and wrists. I am confined in these and stretched out. I feel cool metal on my back as one of Moriarty's men cuts away my shirt. I hear something roll behind me.

"Needles, Mr. Holmes," drawls Moriarty. "Enjoy."

The thing behind me clicks continuously. Suddenly, there is a sharp pain in my back. Then again. And again. I feel blood sliding down my back and dripping to the floor. My eyes blur as more and more needles are fired at my body. I'm sure I look like some sort of spiny creature.

The machine stops clicking, but the pain is still there. I hear a snap and footsteps, and a hand grabs at my back. The needles are yanked out of my skin. I can't help but scream. My bindings are loosened and I fall to the floor. I am left there while John has his "turn".

This goes on for hours. Back and forth, rotating around the different contraptions in the room. I am put in an iron maiden; I am hung in a strappado. I can't see what they do to John. After countless devices have been used, Moriarty screams.

"What does it take to break you?!" He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Then he stops. "Maybe I only have to break one of you." Smirking, he pulls out a gun and points it. Points it at John.

"NO!" I scream.

_bang_


	17. Saying Goodbye

Moriarty laughs and runs to a door. It opens, and he and his men file out. I am frozen. But I cannot be. I have to move.

Slowly, too slowly, I crawl to John. I hold onto any hope I have of him being alive.

Then I hear the gasping.

It takes all of my will power to crawl faster. I finally reach him.

It doesn't look good.

His hands are pressed on his side, but blood webs across his shirt anyway. There is a good bit on the floor. His breathing is uneven.

"Oh god. John, oh John, it'll be ok. Shhh. Here." My words are soft and swift. I pull off what remains of my shirt and press it to the wound. "You… you'll be fine. You'll be ok." Tears begin running down my face.

"Sherlock…"

"You'll be ok!"

"No, Sherlock."

I stop and look at him. He is pale and beautiful, but I see him struggling. And I am selfish. I don't want to let go.

"Take my hand," he whispers. I do as he asks.

"John…" I murmur. His eyes plead with me.

"Sherlock, I… I have to thank you." Tears slide off his cheeks and mix with the blood on the floor. "I was… so alone, for… for so long. I owe you… everything. Thank you." I can't speak. His eyes become frantic. "Sherlock, say something. Please."

"I… I love you, John. You are the best thing in my life. And for that, I owe you my life."

"No, Sherlock. No. You will live. No matter what happens, you will live. Promise me. Please… please promise me."

"I swear it." I kiss his forehead. "I love you, John. I will always love you."

He smiles though his tears. "I love you, Sherlock." He is slipping. I raise his hand to my lips.

"John… John Watson… my beautiful John…"

"Sherlock…" I blink away my tears. John's fingers tighten around my hand. His glorious eyes soak in my every feature. He smiles. "Sherlock."

His hand relaxes and his eyes go blank.

I am frozen. My breaths are shaky. Pressure rises from my chest and into my throat. Tears slowly drip down my face. I begin shaking. I can't handle it anymore.

I fall onto John's limp body, sobbing uncontrollably. I clutch his shirt in my hands. "NO!" I scream. It can't be true. He can't… He can't be… No…

"I've won," Moriarty's voice taunts behind me. I try to ignore him. But he's right.

So congratulations, Jim.

You broke me.

* * *

**I'm pretty sure this will be my last chapter. If anyone wants more, I may write another. I'm currently writing a different fanfic, and that one should be out soon. I hope everyone enjoyed. Thank you all so much for reading.**


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